Ever since he was a kid, Leonard has loved Keith Laumer’s satirical
stories of Retief the galactic diplomat. Mark Onspaugh has written a
story with the scope, ingenuity, and comic feel of the best
Retief, but told from a very different perspective.

Welcome to the Federation

by Mark Onspaugh

Gird
Mackel was dreaming of happier times when the loud, shrill alarm of
his Happy Tone clock-radio assaulted him into wakefulness.

Gird
had owned ten clock-radios in his life, and the first nine had been
sensible enough to break when he hurled them across the room.

The
Happy-Tone merely bounced off the wall and continued to bray at him.
It seemed indestructible. His assistant Huri had selected it on the
basis of durability when she had purchased the cursed thing at
Gal-Mart (“Where the Galaxy shops!”).

Gird
rubbed his eyes and got out of bed, gasping when his bare feet hit
the cold floor.

The
heat was out again.

Gird
sighed and shambled to the bathroom, mentally going over his agenda
for the coming day.

The
bathroom faucets belched out brown water for a good three minutes
before clearing. The water got progressively colder, even though Gird
had the hot tap turned up as far as it would go.

Gird
cursed the plumbing, something that had become a morning ritual, then
splashed cold water on his face. He desperately wanted a shower but
was afraid the frigid water might give him a heart attack. He tried
shaving, but his Gal-Mart Shave-a-tron 5000 shorted out with a
spectacular burst of sparks and smoke. He settled for splashing his
face with the aftershave his son Nuul had sent him for the Blessing
of the Fish and Waters Festival last year.

It
was a scent called Starduster, and it burned his face.

Gird
put on his suit and chose a clip-on tie from a rack in the closet.
He had never mastered the art of tying the damn things.
Traditionally the men of Covalla had kept their neck and chests bare,
to show that they were honest and that their twin hearts beat true.

That
was before the visits from the Federation of Worlds and the Kregaash
Empire. Covalla, a tiny planet in an unremarkable system, had never
had visitors from other worlds, let alone two massive collectives
that spanned whole galaxies.

The
Federation of Worlds had been founded by Earth and a handful of
sentient worlds long before Gird’s great-great-great-grandfather
had been born. Because the founding worlds were on the opposite side
of the galaxy, Covalla had been ignored for millennia.

Then
the Kregaash Empire had conquered a neighboring galaxy known to the
Covallans as Pa-uul-ahuhuyan, or “The Great Oar of Pa-uul”. This
region was known to the Federation as “The
Large
Magellanic Cloud”
and
to the Kregaash
as “The
Kregaashian Birthright”. Running low on races to subdue and abuse,
the conquest-happy Kregaash had been looking to expand their empire,
and their reptilian eyes had fallen on Covalla.

Once
the Kregaash Empire began making overtures, the Federation of Worlds
decided they were interested in Covalla, as well.

Both
groups sent dignitaries and presents, and both sides told the
Covallans how important they were. As a welcoming gesture, Gird’s
grandfather Murr had led the boats out and caught a giant tren, a
meaty fish large enough to feed the village and the dignitaries.

Both
sides seemed to appreciate the feast, though much of their portions
of tren was later found in napkins stashed under the table. Both
seemed to enjoy the traditional dancing and entertainment, though the
wait staff later revealed that the Federation representative had actually
been asleep and the Kregaashian was surreptitiously playing something
called a “video game”.

The
Covallans were a good-natured and forgiving people, and they shrugged
off these insults. Their world was pleasant, the seas were
bountiful, and they loved sharing.

If
only we had been a little meaner, thought Gird.

His
car was still in the shop, so Gird waited for the bus to take him
from the Presidential Palace to his office. In his
great-grandfather’s time, all had lived in open huts on the beach.
The leader, selected by rotation, showed his or her temporary
position by hanging a white shell in the entrance.

Gird
missed living on the beach. He missed the scent of the ocean, the
cool breezes and light rains that soothed and lulled you to deep and
restful sleep. He missed racing out to the boats in the morning,
bringing in the catch and laughing, singing and dancing into the
night.

Most
of all he missed making masks and costumes for the festivals and
Sagas-by-Avatar. He had been very good at it before the Federation
had banned such festivals as uncivilized. They’d appointed him
President for Life after his father died.

The
bus arrived belching smoke, and Gird greeted the driver and the other
passengers. Nobody smiled at him. They blamed him for all the
changes that had come to Covalla.

Gird
sighed, and took a seat near the back. It was a half hour ride to
New Paris, and he had forgotten both his paper and book of crossword
puzzles.

The
bus went along Coastal Route 24, a four lane highway that the
Federation had built to replace the first Federation road, a two-lane
thoroughfare they had named Sea Front Road. In pre-Federation time
it had been a small and lovely path called Minoh-Ul-kjavallah, or
“The Trail Minoh the Sea God Took to Court Mother West Wind”.

You
couldn’t see much of the ocean, any more. The clear areas had
become the sites of barracks for a proposed Federation base. The
enormous base had been half completed when war had broken out near
Antares, and all available Federation soldiers and engineers had gone
to fight the good fight.

Gird’s
son Nuul was out there somewhere, fighting with the other fifteen
young men and women deemed draftable by the Federation Infantry.

Gird
wiped his eyes thinking of Nuul. In the old days the boy would have
been married and he and his wife would be part of the leader
rotation. Nuul would steer his own boat and invite his parents over
for tren and palm wine.

Nuul
departure for the Federation war had been the last straw with Asj,
Gird’s wife. The moment her son had shipped out, Asj had moved
back to the other side of the cove with her mother and younger
brothers. A Presidential Palace, even a tiny one, is a very lonely
place without a wife.

Gird
wished for the thousandth time he could go back in time and advise
his grandfather Fuuw not to join the Federation. They might have
been conquered by the Kregaash, but Gird wondered if that would be
any worse.

The
bus arrived in New Paris, a collection of dun colored buildings built
around a central square. In the square was a statue of Gird’s
grandfather Fuuw shaking hands with Colonel Benjamin Breckenridge,
the first Federation member to set foot on Covalla. Gird had always
thought the sculptor had taken liberties, making Breckenridge look
god-like while his grandfather looked doddering and servile.

He
noted that someone had thrown eggs at the statue again.

Gird
thanked the driver and got off the bus. A balled-up candy wrapper
hit him in the back of the head, but he didn’t turn around.

The
Office of Covallan Administration and Enforcement was directly across
from the spattered statue. It was marked from the other buildings by
a large and stylized shell of purest white nacre, a touch that the
Federation architect thought honored the tradition of the Covallans,
but which most locals found ostentatious and vulgar.

Huri,
his assistant, was at her desk when he arrived. She smiled when she
saw him, then clucked her tongue and stood up. Crossing to him with
a small shake of her head, she straightened his clip-on tie.

“Can’t
even master this child’s formal wear,” Gird said.

“You
have one of the most honest and handsome chests in all of Covalla,”
she said, “you should be able to bare it properly.”

Gird
admired Huri’s fire. She was one of the few who hadn’t made him
the planetary scapegoat.

“Anything
pressing?” he asked.

“Five
more calls for you to go back where you came from.”

Gird’s
family had helped settle the planet Covalla many millennia before,
when the great god Pa-uul had guided their sky-ships to this new
world. It was so long ago that Covallans had lost the technology
necessary for interstellar exploration. It didn’t matter, they had
always had just what they needed. Gird’s ancestor Ma’aluu had
been the pilot of the very first ship. That Gird was now perceived as
some Federation mole and sycophant was ridiculous and hurtful.

“Anyone
important wishing to deport me?”

“The
Minister of Fishing and...” She hesitated, not wanting to hurt
him.

“Go
ahead, Huri, I’m getting used to being unpopular.”

He shook his head. “How can my own mother accuse me of being a
Federation shill?”

“Your
mother.”

“My...”
He shook his head. “How can my own mother accuse me of being a
Federation shill?”

“She theorizes the Federation took her
real son and left you in his crib. She says...” Huri paused, her
eyes now a bit moist.

He
motioned for her to continue.

“She
says no son of hers would send his only son and the youth of Covalla
to fight in a distant war that has nothing to do with us.”

Gird
had no answer for that one, he merely nodded and went into his office
with the tall windows that looked out over the statue of his
much-despised grandfather.

He
spent the first part of the morning going over various reports and
complaints. A study by a student marine biologist showed that the
tren population was in decline, largely because of pollutants from
the two power plants the Federation had constructed near the beaches.
Gird’s grandfather had been among those who had said that the
Covallans did not need a power plant, let alone two, but the
Federation execs had smiled knowingly and continued bulldozing mylin
palms.

The
student hoped her report would be forwarded to the Federation Council
on Indigenous Fish and Game. Gird smiled sadly at her youthful
enthusiasm. Had he ever been that young, that full of fire and
passion? Of course he had. He put her report into a sub-space
packet to Outer Worlds Administration, knowing it would never be
read. At least he could tell her honestly that it had been sent.

The
sanitation workers were on strike, largely because they resented
cleaning up after everybody else. In the old days, each Covallan was
responsible for the area in and around his hut, and a stretch of
beach five feet wide. In this way the villages and oceanfront stayed
clean and free of parasites. Now many Covallans seemed to follow the
Federation example, which was to leave your trash wherever you felt
like it.

Gird sighed. In the old days
everything had been biodegradable, there had been no need for
landfills and dumps. In fact, the Covallans had no words for such
things, and now had to use the fed-lac equivalents.

Gird
started to read a report of children hurt playing in the
partially-completed Federation base when he felt his breathing become
restricted and a familiar pain in his chest. It had happened enough
that he now recognized it as mere anxiety, what the Federation doctor
had called a “panic attack”. The doctor prescribed Ree-Lax, a
sedative carried at Gal-Mart. Gird, like many of his generation, was
the first in his family to take any sedative other than warm uluunut
juice.

Gird
checked to make sure Huri wasn’t watching, then popped two Ree-Lax
from a bottle he had hidden in his desk under a spare shirt and
clip-on.

Once
his heart rate had slowed and he was breathing normally, he told Huri
to put a call through to the Galactic Administration Annex on Munbara
IV.

A
graphic showed a small silver sphere, his call, being routed and
bounced from department to department as he attempted to reach
someone higher up the galactic ladder.

At
last the Gird-sphere stopped at a box labeled Outer Commerce, Curios
and Vending Machines. The box then resolved into a frowning male
from Nnnn III. The Nnnn were a race utterly lacking in compassion,
which some thought made them ideal bureaucrats and loan officers.

Gird knew this because Huri had
gotten him a used copy of “A Child’s Guide to the Founding Worlds
of the Federation” by Uqqq’ll & Crockett. Gird’s office
had been due for a whole slew of information on the other worlds of
the Federation, but then war had broken out with Rigel and his world
was deemed too close to the Kregaash Empire for such sensitive
information.

Still,
the children’s book had been helpful. It had told him that it
would be easier to dance naked on the surface of the sun than to get
an Nnnn to smile or laugh.

“How
can I help you, Governor Nnnnmackel?” The Nnnn also liked to
preface all surnames with their own. An old Nnnn saying went
“Everybody follows the Nnnn, and we mean Nnnneverybody.”

“Sir,
I’m not sure why I was transferred to you. I have been dealing
with the Bureau of Outer Worlds and Independent Plutoids.”

“Have
you been paying the taxes on sales of your indigenous arts and
crafts?”

“No,
we haven’t sold any arts and crafts since initial contact.”

The
Nnnn scanned a screen with one of its eyestalks while the other kept
a baleful gaze on Gird. “I see here that Covalla still owes
thirty-seven fedcreds in taxes from the sale of a clay pot during
initial contact.”

“I
believe that was leftovers from our welcoming feast that we gave to
Colonel Breckenridge, so that was a gift.”

“Mmmm-hmm.”
The Nnnn checked more records. “My records indicate that Colonel
Nnnnbreckenridge said he paid five-hundred fedcreds for that pot.
It’s on his expense report.”

“Well,
he was lying. My great grandmother gave him a pot she had received
from her great grandmother when she was a girl. It was quite old and
cherished by my family.”

“I’m
sure it was,” said the Nnnn, his expression indicating that he was
either growing bored or suffering from dyspepsia. “Still, if you
feel the report was in error, your people should have filed a
complaint immediately.”

“How
could we? This is the first we’ve heard of it.”

The
Nnnn shook his head. “My records indicate much of your earliest
records took the form of songs and puppet shows.”

“We
call them ‘Saga-by-Avatar’.”

“I’m
sure you do. Isn’t it likely you people lost some of valuable
records over the years when some puppet went missing or the puppeteer
died?”

“Our
records have always been impeccable. In fact, we didn’t have any
trouble until the Federation insisted we go to computers.”

“So
you did have trouble.”

Gird
realized he had walked into a bureaucratic language trap. “That’s
not what I meant.”

“Did
you have trouble with the initial computer switch-over or not?”

“Well,
yes, but I can assure you that...”

“Fines
and penalties bring the current balance to...” The Nnnn did some
calculating. “Eight hundred trillion, five hundred and thirty
million and twenty-seven fedcreds.”

Gird
gaped at him. If they sold the planet and everything on it they
could not raise such a sum.

“Sir,
there is no way...”

“Will
there be anything else, Governor Nnnnmackel?”

“I
need to speak to the person responsible for the construction of
Federation troop bases.”

Now
the Nnnn’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why?”

“Because
those half-completed eyesores are ruining our view, and the power
plants supplying them with unneeded power are polluting our waters,
and the buildings erected for us native Covallans have neither clean
water nor adequate heat, which we wouldn’t need if your rape of our
planet hadn’t altered the fleeking climate!”

It
was the first time in years he had dared to tell a Federation
official what he really thought.

“Governor
Nnnnmackel, there’s a war on. You’re just not that important.”
The Nnnn terminated the call.

Gird
picked up a Lucite paperweight that had been Colonel Breckenridge’s
gift to Gird’s grandfather. It was a model of the ship
Breckenridge had come down in, and was made in some exotic locale
known as Hallmark.

Gird
threw it across the room. It broke a window with a cacophonous din
and sailed into the square. From the clanging he heard, Gird assumed
he had hit the statue.

Huri
came running in, sure he had jumped out the window.

Gird
looked at her, face red and twin hearts pumping.

“Huri,
get me the Kregaash Empire!”

It
took Huri two hours to get the call through.

Varv
Smensgssh, Pain-Giver First Class of the Imperial Kregaashan Fleet
appeared on the screen. Three of his eyes had patches over them,
each bearing a medal. The other six eyes regarded Gird and then
broke into a smile filled with file-sharpened teeth and viscous
saliva.

“Gird!
Gird Mackel! How are you, you old fish fondler?” It was the
politest term the Kregassh had for Covallans.

“Pretty good, Varv Smensgssh.”

“Aw,
call me ‘Smensgy’, old buddy.”

“Okay,
‘Smensgy’, congratulations on making Pain-Giver First Class.”

“Well,
it’s mostly an honorary title these days. What can I do for you,
Gird?”

“We
changed our minds.”

“I
beg your pardon?”

“We
revoke the Federation charter. We want the Kregaash Empire to
invade.”

“Is
this a joke, Gird?”

“No,
sir. We want the Kregaash to step on our backs as they establish a
foothold in this quadrant.”

Varv
Smensgssh looked down a minute, embarrassed. When he looked up, Gird
could see he had flushed a deep lavender.

“Gird,
we don’t do that any more. Conquer, I mean.”

“What?”

“We
had an epiphany. Some guy — famous, lots of teeth — went through
our system about ten years ago with this religion called The Niceties.
You know, stuff like ‘it’s nice to be nice to the nice’.”

“I
don’t understand.”

“It
took!” Varv Smensgssh exclaimed. “I still don’t know how...
In fact, every time I try to wrap my head around it I get a splitting
headache. One of those
up-all-night-drinking-fermented-dakka-pancreas kind of headaches.”
Varv Smensgssh winced and rubbed his temples. “But it works! We
returned all our conquered worlds to an autonomous status and have
spent the last five years knitting hats and gloves for various
harvest festivals around our quadrant.”

Gird
pleaded with him. “Just tell the Federation you’ve taken over.
Tell them we’re part of the Kregasshian Empire.”

“Hey,
Gird, do you guys still make that appetizer with the strip of kutrr
meat wrapped around a mylin nut?”

“No,
Federation took our kutrrs to Antares and chopped down all the mylin
palms.”

“Too
bad. I loved those things.”

“You
can get something similar at Gal-Mart. Part of their ‘Almost Like
Home World Cookin’!’ line of frozen foods.”

“Gal-Mart?”
Varv Smengssh made a face. “Last time I ate something there they
had to pump out my nutrient sacs.”

Gird
nodded, grateful to talk to a friend. A friend, it’s true, who had
once promised to roast Gird’s hearts with his death-dealer and eat
them still popping and smoking, but a friend nevertheless.

As
they were saying their goodbyes, Gird had an idea.

“Hey, Smensgy.”

“Yeah?”

“You
guys used to threaten us with tales of the Ptaak. What were they
like?”

Varv
Smensgssh went pale.

“The Ptaak? Trust me, Gird, you don’t want to have anything to
do with them.”

The
call from Covalla started at Outer Commerce, Curios and Vending
Machines, then was bounced to Outer Worlds Administration and was
deflected (hurriedly and with many blanched and pale faces) to the
Offices of Star Command, Federation Fleet Admiral Benjamin
Breckenridge IV.

Various
Generals and Admirals from the Founding Worlds were rounded up into
the main conference room. The Covallan Emissary and the Federation
Ambassador to Covalla were both summoned, and there was a monumental
outburst of swearing from Breckenridge when it was discovered that
neither post existed.

The
Fleet’s finest took their seats and the west wall became a
translucent screen.

The
call from Covalla was put through.

Accounts
differ on the initial reaction to the first glimpse of xCxz, Ruler of
Ptaak. Some claim that several of the top brass fled from the room,
some to be physically sick and others to hide while they wept like
little babies. Other reports say that the military men and women
stood their ground, exclaiming slogans once attributed to Captain
John Paul Jones (“I have not yet begun to fight!”) and General
Anthony McAuliffe (“Nuts!”).

It
is agreed that Breckenridge himself stayed in his chair. Whether he
soiled himself is still a matter of debate.

Regardless,
the screen showed the ruler of the Ptaak at the desk of Governor Gird
Mackel. No one had ever seen a Ptaak, and it was later agreed they
were one of the ugliest races ever. “Face like a Ptaak” became an
insult on hundreds of worlds.

“We will be studying the local indigenous
bipedal vertebrates to determine the most effective means of torture
and the most painful method of harvesting their organs for snack
cakes and children’s toys.”

“Members
of the Federation of Worlds,” xCxz spat, “we of the Ptaak
Infestation claim Covalla as our world. It is our first foray into
your loathsome quadrant, and we will be studying the local indigenous
bipedal vertebrates to determine the most effective means of torture
and the most painful method of harvesting their organs for snack
cakes and children’s toys. Anyone who opposes us will meet the
fate of Gird Mackel, their pitiful excuse of a leader.”

With
that, xCxz held up Gird’s smoking, severed head and shook it at the
viewers. Gird’s expression was one of dull surprise.

Then
the screen went black.

The
room erupted into an uproar of righteous indignation and more catchy
phrases.

Gird
Mackel was reaching to shut off his clock radio when the
Presidential Palace began to shake. Gird assumed that
Mu’uuu’uuu-ahah, the Volcano Goddess, was making herself heard
after many centuries of silence.

He
and Huri went out onto the front lawn.

The
sky was black, but not with smoke.

Warships
and cruisers of every type filled the skies. Gird’s neighbors fled
back into their homes, sure that someone meant to put poor Covalla
out of its misery.

Admiral
Benjamin Breckenridge IV was the first to step out onto Gird’s
lawn, squashing some hgu lilies in the process.

“I’m
here for the Ptaak,” he said menacingly, holding both a ceremonial
sword and a phasing blast pistol. His first words had been carefully
crafted on the journey to Covalla, beating out “Show yourselves,
alien scum!” and “Who wants some?”.

“As
soon as they saw you coming they ran,” said Gird nervously.

A
victory cry went up, cut short when Breckenridge raised his hand.
“And just who might you be?”

Admiral
Breckenridge nodded paternally, accustomed to the simple ways of
indigenous people out on the Wrong Arm of the Galaxy.

It
was the shortest-won victory in Federation history, and one of the
most lasting.

The
Federation did face a PR nightmare when reporters, conservationists
and Federation-founding philanthropists demanded to know who had
polluted Covalla’s once blue sea and skies, who had blighted the
landscape, and who was accountable for the lack of clean, hot water
at the Sheraton-Galacticus. Gird saved the Federation’s bacon by
claiming all these ills were the result of the cruel and inhuman
Ptaak Infestation. As a gesture of good will the Federation forgave
the Covallans their longstanding debt and pledged to keep the tiny
world safe.

The
citizens of the Federation cried for poor Covalla to be restored to
its pristine state, and their government was quick to oblige.

The
first building to go was the Gal-Mart (“Where the galaxy shops!”),
and many Covallans not only volunteered but paid to be on the
demolition team.

Within
three years all traces of “Ptaakan Infestation” had been removed.
The seas were almost clean and the tren were again plentiful.

By this time war had broken out
in the Sagittarian Phalanx, and the Federation could not afford to
leave personnel behind to watch for the return of the hated Ptaak.
Gird’s suggestion to bring home the sons and daughters of Covalla
for this important task was quickly embraced. It was a proud day for
Gird when his son Nuul was appointed Captain of the Federation Fleet,
Covallan Theater.

When the final Federation ships
left Covalla, they were heavily-laden with chunks of concrete, clock
radios and ten-speed blenders, frozen cocktail wieners and underarm
deodorant.

That was the day the Covallans
held The Feast of the Burning of the Neckties.

The crying of his son Fuuw woke
Gird Mackel. He went to the child’s crib and picked him up.

“How about a walk on the beach,
little guy?” he asked.

Fuuw cooed and gargled that this
was a peachy idea.

Gird kissed his son’s head and
took him out, careful not to hit his head on the white shell hanging
at the entrance of his hut. Temporary Chief Huri was out on the
beach, discussing the coming Feast of Plenty with some of the elders.
She waved and blew her husband and baby a kiss.

After the Federation had left,
the people asked Gird to consider becoming Chief for the remainder of
his life. He politely refused and recommended the rotation be
reinstated. When it was proposed a statue be erected in his honor,
he instead asked that an offering be made to the sea on behalf of the
three men and women who had been lost in the Antarean Conflict.

Nowadays, Covalla’s only
contact with the Federation was a coded report the reigning Chief had
to send in once a month, a report that said “All is well”.

Declared a Primitive Cultural
Treasure by the Department of Vacations, Cruises and Xeno-morbidity,
Covalla was declared off-limits to all tourists and traveling
sales-entities. Gird was able to get a special exemption for Varv
Smensgssh and his family, who loved to lay on the beach and fish for
tren with Gird and his son Nuul. Gird told his good friend Smensgy
they were always welcome as long as they left their religious
pamphlets and tracts at home with their Pre-Nicety pain-givers and
molar-extractors.

And to most of the Federation
Covalla was just too far away and at the wrong end of the galaxy, and
that was the way Gird liked it.

Now he gazed out at the sea, his
baby warm and snug in his arms.

“Remember, Fuuw,” he said,
kissing the babbling baby’s head, “in the galactic scheme of
things it’s good to be important...”

But not too important.

Mark Onspaugh (www.markonspaugh.com) is a
native Californian who grew up on a steady diet of horror, science
fiction and DC Comics. A proud member of the HWA, he writes
screenplays, short stories and novels. He was also one of the writers
of the cult movie favorite “Flight of the Living Dead”. He lives in
Los Osos, CA with his wife, author/artist Dr. Tobey Crockett.
His publications include anthologies like Footprints and the
forthcoming The World is Dead (with fellow Thoughtcrime
author Carole Lanham).